A yellow box truck backed down the slope of the driveway, its backup horn letting out five loud blasts before the diesel engine cut off.

Two men in dark gray work shirts unlatched the rear roll-up door and lifted out a big three-piece sectional sofa wrapped in thick protective plastic.

Vance came out from the back patio with a paper cup of warm coffee.

He stopped at the edge of the asphalt driveway and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand.

“Dad said you won’t be needing the basement room anymore,” Vance said.

I twisted the silver ring on my right thumb and looked at the side of the delivery truck.